


Mutual Pining

by Rebel_Atar



Series: Attic Verse [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:45:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8323168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebel_Atar/pseuds/Rebel_Atar
Summary: Grantaire and Enjolras attempt to deal with the fall out of Enjolras revealing his thoughts.





	1. Chapter 1

Enjolras was avoiding him. Of that fact Grantaire was absolutely certain.

 

It had taken three days for him to start feeling like himself again after the sickness and since then he’d seen neither hide nor hair of Enjolras. It was infuriating.

 

You couldn’t just turn around and say. ‘By the way all this time you were painting your fantasies of me you could have just asked and I’d have posed for you.’ Then vanish. Alright, so maybe he was embellishing the conversation a little but the point still stood.

 

The man he’d not been able to keep out of his thoughts for years now had, well. What had he said for that matter. He’d said he didn’t mind if Grantaire painted him. Did that mean something more. The smile he’d given Grantaire. Soft but almost smirking. The indulgence in his voice, amusement and was it just wishful thinking for him to say happiness. Was he reading too much into things.

 

The only way to really find out was to speak to Enjolras. Unfortunately they seemed to have switched roles recently as the blond was now disappearing whenever Grantaire showed up. It was infuriating. Although perhaps that in itself told Grantaire what he needed to know. Why would Enjolras hide from him unless he was worried about something, scared of something. Rejection maybe? Mocking? Embarrassment?

 

The lack of any concrete confirmation was driving the artist to distraction. Not that he was ever particularly far from it to begin with but that was beside the point.

 

He was currently sitting in the kitchen, staring moodily into a cup of coffee. He hadn’t spiked it for once. He was hoping things might go over better with Enjolras if he was actually sober. Of course that would require Enjolras to come out of his room or wherever else he was holed up.

 

Jehan had been flitting in and out all morning. Happy to the point of almost skipping around and annoyingly smug about something. Grantaire wasn’t sure what. He’d have been more interested in them if he wasn’t so preoccupied.

 

Bahorel strode into the kitchen, bumping shoulders with Grantaire in silent solidarity as he passed. “Is there coffee left in the machine?” He asked.

 

“Hmm?” Grantaire looked up. “Oh. Yeah, I made a fresh pot. Do you think Courfeyrac will stop complaining about me stealing the flat’s coffee now that he knows I actually live here?”

 

“Awesome.” Said Bahorel, peering into a cupboard. “No I don’t think he will. I think he thinks all coffee in the vicinity of him belongs to him. Doesn’t matter where it’s actually from.” He closed the doors of that cupboard and opened another one, brow furrowed in confusion.

 

“Where the fuck have all our mugs gone?”

Grantaire looked down at the tea cup he was drinking coffee out of. It was from a tea set one of them owned. The general assumption was that it was Jehan’s but Grantaire had the sneaking suspicion it actually belonged to Combeferre. He thought about his attic and contemplated the amount of mugs being used to clean paint brushes.

 

“No idea Bahorel.” The artist said, attempting to look nonchalant. He drained his coffee in two long swallows and excused himself while the boxer was busy rummaging around the kitchen. If there weren’t any more teacups left he was going to have to drink out of a bowl or something.

 

He slouched back up to the attic, pausing for a moment outside Enjolras door to sigh somewhat pathetically. When he got back to his little hideaway he found someone had been messing with it while he was away. His canvasses had been arranged into two lots, finished and unfinished. Each category piled against opposite walls. His books had been stacked neatly against the back wall. Next to the fridge and snack basket trolley and under the window come skylight. The empty bottles had been removed. The mugs which had previously been scattered all over the place, not unlike his paintings, had been collected in a corner. There was a post it note above them that read “Your attic’s looking a little muggy ;)”

 

He suspected Joly. The man could never resist a pun.

 

His suspicions were confirmed when he went to open his mini-fridge and found it filled with fruit. There was another post it note. This one read “I will save you from scurvy whether you like it or not.”

 

Grantaire scrunched it up and threw it in a corner. It landed in one of the paint water filled mugs. He took an apple from the fridge anyway. He liked apples and since his fridge was filled with fruit he might as well eat some of it.

  


Enjolras, as it turned out, wasn’t in his room at all. He was at the library. Though a text from Combeferre confirming that Grantaire had returned to his attic had him heading back to the house. He wasn’t avoiding Grantaire, precisely. Alright. That was a lie. That was exactly what he was doing, but he just didn’t know how to act around the artist now he’d come out and basically revealed he had a thing for him. At least, that was what he assumed Grantaire had gotten out of the brief conversation when the artist had been ill. What else could he have possibly thought. Enjolras may not have come out and said the actual words but he’d not exactly hidden his intentions.

 

This now left him in the unfortunate position of not knowing how to behave around Grantaire and being too nervous to try on the off chance that he had misread the man’s feelings. It was unlikely considering the sheer volume of paintings that had young blond men in them but there was this little niggling voice in the back of Enjolras’ mind that said: “Yes. But what if they’re of some one else.”

He’d deal with it later. For now, at least, it was safe to head home. He thought about grabbing a coffee on the way but, remembering they had a coffee machine, decided he’d just make a mug of it when he got in.


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras was confused.

 

It was a state that he had been in increasingly often lately. Right now was confused as to why Bahorel was sullenly sipping coffee out of a teacup that looked absolutely tiny in his hands.

 

“Umm?” He said, staring at Bahorel.

 

“There aren’t any mugs.” The boxer said defensively.

 

“What? That can’t be right, we have honestly a rather unreasonable amount of them.” When they were all clean the mugs filled two cupboards above the sink as well as a few lingering around the countertops.

 

“None in the cupboards, none in the sink.” Said Bahorel.

 

“Have you tried the little kitchen upstairs?” There was usually a handful there just in case.

 

“Also mug-less.” He sighed.

 

“Oh. That’s...odd.” Enjolras was rather at a loss. He didn’t know how to console a Bahorel whose sole reason for depression was a lack of mugs. It was a little outside the handbook. Considering the handbook in this case would be called “How to deal with a two story house filled with insane flatmates”, that was saying something. He felt as though life had not prepared him adequately to deal with this situation.

 

Jehan lingered in the doorway, watching the odd exchange until the awkard silence became too much for them to bear. Honestly, Bahorel could make such a fuss over nothing when he was in the mood to. “Enjolras?” They called out.

 

“Yes?” He turned to face Jehan.

 

“I think Grantaire was looking for you earlier.” Said Jehan.

 

“Really?” Enjolras perked up a bit at the thought.

 

“Yes, he was rather mopey though.” Jehan regretted saying that almost instantly. He had hoped it would make the blond worried enough to go and find Grantaire. What it actually did was make him deflate slightly and take up the same facial expression the artist had been wearing earlier.

 

“Umm.” Said Jehan.

 

“Perhaps he was moping because he also had to drink a tiny coffee out of a tiny cup.” Offered Bahorel, unhelpfully. Jehan levelled a glare at him. Bahorel glared back and vindictively finished his coffee.

 

Enjolras wondered in the privacy of his own head if Grantaire was upset that he had feelings for him. It would be just his luck really. Everyone had been prodding at him for so long to tell Grantaire how he felt and they had all seemed to be of the opinion that the artist reciprocated. It was certainly what Enjolras had thought when he first saw the paintings. The more time that passed since his confession the more he was doubting himself. It would be just his luck if everyone had been wrong about Grantaire.

 

Jehan saw the look on the blond’s face and attempted to do some damage control before things got too out of hand.  “You know those are actually normal sized teacups, Bahorel. You’re just unusually large.”

 

Bahorel raised an eyebrow at him, Jehan flushed and ignored it.

 

“I mean that they hold a reasonable amount of coffee for Grantaire and he had a few cup-fulls so I doubt that was what he was looking so down about.” They turned back to Enjolras. “He looked like he had a lot on his mind Enjy, that’s all.”

 

“I could be wrong.” Said Bahorel in a tone which said he was aware he was being unreasonable and he would, for Jehan’s sake, take a brief holiday from that for what he considered to be the greater good but would be going straight back to being unreasonable afterward. “Grantaire might just be moping because he’s sober.”

 

Enjolras shock was visible on his face. He knew that Grantaire must weather sobriety more often than he let on, or at least he hoped he did. However the artist was rarely completely sober around Enjolras and he certainly didn’t think he’d heard of the man being sober for this length of time.

 

Jehan could have kissed Bahorel in that moment and they knew fine well not to let an opportunity slip by when they see it.

 

“You know,” said Jehan. “I haven’t actually seen R drinking at all since he got over being sick.”

 

Enjolras wondered why he would have stopped drinking. Did his confession have anything to do with it? Did Enjolras shock him so much he turned sober or was he just taking a break from anything that might make him ill again for a little while? Enjolras retreated to his room to think things over. He wrapped himself up in a quilt, might as well be comfy while he angsted. He resolved to talk to Combeferre about this sort of thing a little later on.

 

Jehan watched him leave the kitchen and swiftly went back to being smug. Bahorel looked at them suspiciously, a question forming in his mind at the sight of the poet’s smirk.

 

“You know what smug is an anagram of Jehan?” Said Bahorel.

 

Jehan sighed. “You are not seriously suggesting-”

 

“Mugs!”

 

  
  
Up in his attic Grantaire paused in his sketching. He could have sworn he heard someone shouting for a moment there. It must have been nothing, if someone wanted him for something they knew where to find him. He looked down at what he’d spent the last hour working on. It was a lot more abstract than what he usually went for but his mind was a swirling mess right now and it made sense to him that his art would mimic it.

 

He glanced guiltily at the small army of mugs in the corner of his room. Then he got up and threw a blanket over them. Out of sight out of mind. Besides, he hated doing the dishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When did this fic become about coffee mugs?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Combeferre have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so. Firstly I am still alive. Hello.
> 
> Secondly I've been agonising over this chapter for literally months and I'm still not happy with it.
> 
> I don't know how many times I've rewritten it at this point but its not coming out any better. So I've decided I've kept you waiting long enough.
> 
> I'm sorry for keeping you all waiting so long. I'm especially sorry if it's not up to my usual standard. Hopefully I can get on with the rest of the fic quicker now that this is finally finished though.

After a good hour and a half of sitting curled up in a duvet, mind running over all the worst case scenarios that he’d already spent every day since Grantaire had been ill thinking about, Enjolras decided that he should probably talk to someone with a little more objectivity. 

 

The blond sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Time to find where Combeferre was. 

 

Out of all of his friend’s Enjolras was the closest to Combeferre, with Courferyrac being a very close second. They were best friends and Enjolras could trust Combeferre to be completely honest with him in a way most people wouldn’t dare to. This did however mean that not only was Combeferre completely used to dealing with Enjolras when it came to the blond’s feelings for Grantaire, he was also nearing the end of his patience with the whole thing.

 

Enjolras did a quick check of the communal areas before coming to the conclusion that Combeferre must be in his room. He stood in front of the bedroom door and shuffled his feet. The blond raised his hand to knock on the door but before he could was greeted with an exasperated voice from the other side.

 

“Oh for goodness sake come in Enjolras, it’s certainly taken you long enough to stop sulking.”

 

Enjolras pushed open the door with an indignant pout. “I was not sulking.”

 

Combeferre lowered the book he was reading and looked at Enjolras over the top of his glasses. Enjolras shuffled his feet again.

 

“Shut the door and come and sit down.”

 

“Yes, ‘Ferre.” Enjolras closed the door with a quiet click and sat on his friend’s bed, knees pulled to his chest.

 

Combeferre slid a bookmark in to mark his place before putting the book on his desk. He leant back in his chair and observed Enjolras a little more closely. His friend looked sad verging on miserable. There was a certain wistfulness about the whole thing which spoke to his longing for the artist and his idle fidgeting showed his nervousness. Combeferre sighed.

 

“I thought,” he began, “That all this had already been resolved, or did you exaggerate when you said you’d confessed to Grantaire?”

 

Enjolras hung his head and curled in on himself more. 

 

“Oh do stop wilting Enjolras, you’re not a plant.” Combeferre rolled his eyes.

 

Enjolras mumbled into his knees. Combeferre’s suspicions that Enjolras may have not been straightforward with Grantaire rose significantly.

 

“What was that?” He asked.

 

Enjolras raised his head and spoke a little more clearly. “I said I told him if he wanted to paint me he could have just asked.”

 

“And?” Prompted Combeferre.

 

“Um?” Enjolras stalled with a sheepish look.

 

“Well, did you say anything else?” He stood with his hands on his hips, his face fixed in an expression of how unimpressed he was at his best friend’s antics.

 

“Before that I asked why all his subjects were the same, and why they were young blond men.”

 

Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “That’s all you said?”

 

“He didn’t really seem to want to talk much, he  _ was _ very ill ‘Ferre.” Enjolras pleaded.

 

Combeferre let out a sigh. “Yes I suppose he was, and I suppose considering the circumstance that was rather a large step for you to say that to him. Especially without agonising over it.”

 

Enjolras looked away. “But what if I was wrong what if those paintings aren’t of me?”

 

Combeferre’s jaw dropped in a look of utter incredulity. “What do you mean what if they aren’t of you? I’ve half a mind to drag you right back up to that attic to look at them again.”

 

“No!” Enjolras sprung to his feet in panic. “What if Grantaire’s up there!”

 

“Then perhaps you could give him a confession that explicitly states your feelings and possibly even your hopeful intentions rather than permission for him to ogle you a bit more openly.”

 

If looks could kill Combeferre’s raised eyebrow would be an accessory to murder.

 

He was not having this nonsense again. Combeferre had been fielding Enjolras’ pining and self doubt regarding Grantaire since the artist first started speaking his mind at their meetings. Now that his friend was finally,  _ finally _ , starting to test the waters between the two of them Combeferre absolutely refused to the Enjolras over analyse things.

 

“Honestly,” Combeferre sighed and pushed his glasses more firmly into position on his nose. “Are you being purposefully obtuse Enjolras.”

 

The blond just looked at him mournfully again and sat back down on the bed. Combeferre sometimes wondered if his friends’ purpose in life was solely to make him as exasperated as possible.

  
  


“Look.” He sat down next to Enjolras. “I understand that it’s probably getting quite difficult to think objectively under all of that mounting paranoia you have that he doesn’t return your feelings.” Combeferre said, not unkindly. “But the only way you are ever going to get past this is if you actually talk to him.” 

 

Enjolras leant against Combeferre. Still feeling sorry for himself but aware that, as usual, his best friend was probably right. He would need to work up the courage to talk to Grantaire, of course that was provided that the artist himself actually wanted to speak to him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a year of writers block for the entire Les Mis fandom I may slightly be back.

Joly was a good friend. He looked after his friends when they were sick, he was a shoulder to cry on, always willing to listen to what their problems were and do his best to cheer them up. He was supportive and affectionate. Right now he was also just about fed up with one of his friend's behaviour.  
  
After spending the past few days watching Grantaire and Enjolras dodge each other he'd had enough. He'd done everything he could think of to help perk up R. He'd cleaned his room, organised his paintings, and filled his supplies up with something that might actually extend his life instead of shortening it.  
  
Still Grantaire moped.  
  
He made up a plate of sandwiches in the kitchen, grabbed a couple of bottles of fruit juice and headed up to the attic to have a combination picnic and lovelife intervention with Grantaire.  
  
Climbing the ladder to the attic with an armfull of food proved just as difficult as the last time he'd attempted it and as soon as he could reach up and slide the plate and bottles onto the attic floor it became a whole lot easier.  
  
Grantaire raised an eyebrow as Joly clambered into his room.   
  
"While I appreciate being brought food, to what do I owe your continued kindness?" He said.  
  
"Oh don't worry. Its a bribe to get you to talk to me." Said Joly.  
  
Grantaire frowned in confusion. "Why wouldn't I talk to you?"  
  
Joly settled himself and the food next to Grantaire on the futon with a smile. "Because its about Enjolras."  
  
"Oh fuck, what has he said? He hates me doesn't he? The paintings offended him." Grantaire tugged at his curls and Joly nudged him with an elbow.  
  
"And you can stop with that bullshit right now." He stopped to take a bite of a sandwich. "I know fine and well Enjolras told you that you were talented, I also know fine and well that he said you could paint him. People don't offer to let you paint them if they are offended by your paintings."  
  
He poked the artist in the side of the head. "Is any of this getting through to you? Or are you going to keep avoiding him?"  
  
"I've not been avoiding him." Grantaire huffed and crossed his arms. "I've actually looked for him a few times but he's never around. Everytime I think I can hear him he's gone by the time I get to whatever room it is."  
  
  
Joly raised an eyebrow at him. "What is it they say about turnabout being fairplay?"  
  
  
Grantaire scowled at him, unimpressed. "Well, I've made the effort. If Enjolras wanted to speak to me, he would do. He's not been shy about it before." He sulkily shoved a sandwich into his mouth. "If he's avoiding me there nothing I can about it and he obviously wants nothing to do with me."  
  
Joly brushed the sprayed crumbs away from him and contemplated whether strangling his friend would bring about anything productive.  
  
He stared at the blanket covered mound in the corner and contemplated Bahorel's foul mood regarding mugs.  
  
"I will agree that there's not much you can do about Enjy if he's avoiding you. _However_ , that doesn't mean it's nothing to do with you." Joly sighed. "I'll make you a deal. I'll handle the not so hidden issue in that corner, before Bahorel tries to murder you, and in return you can keep looking out for Enjolras."  
  
Grantaire weighed the thought in his head. "I don't know." He hedged.  
  
"You're underestimating Bahorel's mood I see. Look at it this way. If you find Enjy, you find him and you can talk to him then. If not, you can keep looking occasionally. Whatever happens, I'm here for you." He bumped their shoulders together.   
  
Grantaire ducked his head with a smile. "Thanks Joly, you're the best."  
  
"Does that mean you're going to keep trying?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Joly grinned. "Just so you know R? I'm proud of you. Not just for sticking to this but don't think I haven't noticed you're not drinking."  
  
Grantaire blushed.  
  
"You should be proud of yourself too, not just for that but your art as well. It's amazing. So stop worrying for a little while. Okay?" Said Joly.  
  
"Okay, thank you." Said R.  
  
Joly waved off his thanks and the two of them set about finishing of the sandwiches and juice. Then they curled up together on the futon for a well deserved nap. Joly would figure out how to get all those mugs down the ladder once he woke up.


	5. Chapter 5

  
Whilst Grantaire and Joly napped blissfully up in the attic, Feuilly showed up.   
  
The bags under his eyes were deeper than usually and he was especially grumpy upon being told by Bahorel that if he wanted a coffee he was probably going to have to drink it out of a bowl.  
  
Feuilly was often grumpy when presented with a lack of coffee. He worked full time and took night classes at the university, this meant that he was almost always tired. Both his work and the university were closer to his friend's house than his own dingy flat, not that he had told anyone where exactly that was. As such he was    over so often he practically lived there and unofficially owned the sofa in the downstairs living room.  
  
He hadn't been friends with them long but got along famously with Enjolras and, in complete contrast to this, had formed some kind of unshakeable bond with Bahorel and Grantaire. He had proved himself to be an absolute menace when combined with either or both of them.   
  
He was fiercly independant and had reached the point where he just brought a blanket everywhere with him as he would probably end up crashing out on the couch at some point in his foreseeable future.  
  
Since the last time he'd been over all sorts of nonsense seemed to have happened. Bahorel was sullenly catching him up as Feuilly proded the couch into some sort of configuration that would be comfy enough to sleep on.   
  
"What do you mean youve all seen R’s art?" Feuilly seemed personally affronted by the fact that his fellow artist had not shown him first. "He never shows _anyone_ his art!  Why did nobody tell me?" He yawned, undermining his impassioned tirade. "I demand to go an see it after this nap."  
  
Bahorel smiled fondly as he watched Feuilly curl up on the sofa. His own surliness somewhat tempered by the presence of his best friend. Something that was immediately undermined by Courferyrac returning home with a Venti cup of something from Starbucks.


	6. Chapter 6

A couple of days passed and the mug issue was finally resolved, secretly and silently by Joly. Bahorel had reacted not with the relief they had expected but with instant suspicion. He had immediately stolen two mugs to henceforth live in his room, on the chance that this ever happened again.  
  
Bossuet had also turned up. He did so periodically. He was another fairly recent addition to the group. He got along famously with Joly and showed up when no one expected it but was always welcome. He the most cheery and also the most accident prone man any of them had ever met. You could leave Bossuet alone in a completely empty room and he’d find a way to break something. Never on purpose and always sheepishly apologetic.  
  
   
Bahorel thought he was the best thing ever for reasons no one had quite managed to figure out yet and considering that Bossuet was as good at injuring himself as he was at breaking things he had a tendency to try and avoid the enormous man. Bahorel was a gentle giant when it came to his friends but it wold be just Bossuet's luck to be the first man to have his ribs broken from an enthusiastic hug.  
  
He was quiet though. When not laughing along with Joly he liked to sit back and just drink in the presence of his friends. This meant that he was currently the one person Grantaire could be around without having to worry about being given advice about his love life. After his talk with Joly this was something the artist was incredibly grateful for.   
  
Joly was a great friend and Grantaire really appreciated the advice he'd been given, but right now he just needed a bit of a break from it all.  
  
Bossuet sat on Grantaire's futon while the artist sketched out a new work.  
  
"What are you working on?"  
  
"I have no idea." Said R. "I'm trying to work out a few things up here." He tapped the side of his head. "I'm hoping this will help."   
  
Bossuet hummed in understanding and watched his friend sketch. "It's really interesting to watch you know." He said after a while.  
  
"Oh? I thought you'd be bored."  
  
"Oh no. I have absolutely no knowledge of art other than I like to look at it so seeing the process that goes in to it is kind of facinating really."  
  
Grantaire grinned. "You're the best kind of person to appreciate it than. Not that there isn't something to be said for in depth critiques and analysis. But art is meant to be looked at, meant to be taken in and enjoyed before its meant to be anything else. Having someone who just likes art because that's what they like is pretty refreshing."  
  
   
Bossuet laughed and flopped back on the futon. "If you feel that way you should display your work or have, I dont know a salon? Is that what they're called? Whatever it is where artists show off their paintings. Can't appreciate them if they're stuck up here R."  
  
Grantair blushed and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah. I know. I just. Its personal you know, most of it. You're right though. Everyone I was worried about seeing it has seen it now. Might as well get it out there right?"  
  
Bossuet grinned back at him from where he was sprawled out and nodded. "Right."


	7. Chapter 7

Bossuet _was_ right.

  
Everyone who he had been scared of had seen the work now. The more he thought about it, the more Grantaire realised he would actually quite like to display his art.

  
He felt pretty insecure about some of it. There were definitely still things he needed to work on practising more and things to get better at but even he didn't think his paintings were _awful._

  
It would be nice, he thought, to get some unbiased opinions. To see if there was anyone who could appreciate his art just for the joy of it being there.

  
The thing was. It felt pretty ridiculous to be considering putting on a display without talking to the man who was the subject of a lot of the paintings. Even if it was just to ask Enjolras if he was okay with it.

  
Even if they both avoided talking about the tension that hung between them now, Grantaire needed to talk to his muse.   
  


He gave up toying with his sketch, that if he was honest he'd finished half an hour ago, and shoved a post it note in the sketch book as a marker. He'd scale it up onto canvas later.

 

Then he prodded at his hair in the mirror for a moment before giving it up as a lost cause. His hair was more chaotic than his attic had been before Joly cleaned it. It never behaved and there was probably no point in hoping it would now.

 

He headed down the ladder with a sigh. The longer he procrastinated, the more wound up he would be when he finally spoke to Enjolras. Best to get it over with now.

 

One of the benefits of living in a house with your closest friends was that it never took very long to reach them. In less than two minutes the artist was outside Enjolras' bedroom, hand poised to knock.

 

The door swung open in front on Grantaire's raised fist. He stared at Enjolras in confusion.

  
"Oh...Grantaire." Enjolras rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, cheeks flushed. "I was just coming to find you."

  
Grantaire blinked.

  
"Um, would you liked to come in?" Enjolras stepped back, to one side of the door. Grantaire felt his stomach roil with nerves but squared his shoulders and walked in anyway. He had come to talk to Enjolras, running away now would be pointless. He folded himself crosslegged onto Enjolras' bed.

 

Enjolras shut the door and figetted a little before sitting down at his desk, chair turned to face the artist. "So, what brings you to my door."

 

Grantaire smirked at him. "Maybe I should ask why you were coming to find me."

 

Enjolras flushed and Grantaire relaxed a little at the sight. The fact that the blond seemed nervous about speaking with him tipped the odds requition a little in his favor.

 

He shook his head. "Nevermind. I wanted to ask you...I'm thinking of displaying my work. Publicly."

 

"That's fantastic." Enjolras offered him a shy smile.

 

"Well, we'll see I guess. Thing is, I feel a bit weird about just...putting it out there." Grantaire swallowed and focused on keeping his voice steady. He would not let Enjolras know how nervous he was about the next bit.

"As you saw, when I was ill, you're the subject of a lot of it and I know I didn't ask if it was okay for me to paint you. So I'm asking now, are you alright with me displaying works that are of you." Grantaire knew he was starting to babble but it was a little late to stop it now. "Because I can miss them out. I mean it will be a much smaller display but there are a few that aren't...I mean-"

Enjolras took his hands and Grantaire couldn't for the life of him think when he had moved across the room.

"Breath, R." His voice was as soft as his smile, and he looked at the artist with what seemed like fondess.

"I-"

Enjolras sighed. "Yes. Of course it's okay. It's your work. And it's beautiful you should definitely let people see it."

 

Grantaire nodded and looked down at their joined hands. He heard Enjolras breath catch and he gripped back before the blond could pull away.

 

"Enjolras." His voice was horse, where had all his words gone now. "You said." He swallowed and tried again. "You said if I wanted you to pose for me, all I had to do was ask. Yeah?"

 

Enjolras nodded, feeling too shaky to speak.

 

"What if I wanted to do something else. With you." Grantaire couldn't even look at him now. He focused on their hands. A point of contact where previously they had barely brushed shoulders before.

 

Enjolras squeezed his fingers and knelt up so he could lean in and press one soft, hesitant kiss to Grantaire's cheek. At the artist's gasp he smiled. "Then ask."

 

Grantaire turned his head and their noses almost brushed. He could see the tiny freckles spread across the bridge of Enjolras nose they were so close.

 

"Would you, go out to dinner with me. Sometime."

 

"Yes." A soft breath of air that Grantaire could feel against his lips.

 

"Can I kiss you."

 

" _Yes_."

 

He leant in and closed that last short distance between them. His chapped lips pressed against Enjolras' soft, full ones.

 

Brief. Chaste. Perfect.

 

When he drew back Enjolras followed, as Grantaire had always followed him. As their lips met for a second time they shared the thought that whatever this was going to be, they'd get there together this time.


End file.
